


Pretty Things

by stephanericher



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-14
Updated: 2015-08-14
Packaged: 2018-04-14 16:47:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4572105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>for a prompt on tumblr. Aomine doesn't date fans--but he might make an exception for this one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pretty Things

Aomine’s sixteen-year-old self would have been thrilled out of his mind if he’d had a fan club. Of course, he would have been preoccupied with how hot the female members were and how fucking cool it would have been to tell Wakamatsu and piss him off even more. Of course, now he’s twice that age and those kinds of things aren’t that interesting to him. If he wants to date, he can go out and meet someone, and he’s had his share of being with admirers—it’s usually not all it’s cracked up to be. And even most of the hot ones just want a picture or their memorabilia signed or if they’re interested in sex or romance, it’s only for bragging rights. Which is understandable, but kind of sucks in a way, too. There’s no idealism left in meeting with his fan clubs; even when it’s with pure-hearted kids who do admire him he’s not imparting great wisdom or changing their lives or anything.

But he still goes. It’s not for the money; it’s not even for any particular aspect of the experience—but there are many worse ways to spend a rainy summer afternoon back home, especially when he’s been training to get in gear all month. And he’s actually on good terms with the president of this fan club; they’ve done charity work together and the people she invites to the meetings are usually pretty cool.

And as he slips into today’s, it looks like most of the same crowd as usual; he nods to a few of them and they smile and wave but even the new ones don’t crowd around him and tell him how wonderful he is (which he enjoys hearing, but not at the exhaustingly weird pace of ten people at once trying to get the same words in edgewise like birds snapping at each other in a tree. He sizes up the food table; it looks like there’s some good stuff and it’s not too crowded—there’s one tall person with what looks like green hair picking out appetizers, but no one other than him. Aomine sidles up; the person at the table turns—and fuck.

This is definitely one of the most beautiful people Aomine has ever seen, professional beautiful people like Kise included. He’s tall, a little bit taller than Aomine, and obviously covered in lean muscle beneath his tight-but-not-too-tight clothes. He can’t be much older than college age (if that), but his face is free of baby fat or blemishes; his eyes are sharp and the same color as his hair beneath glasses as linear and stoic as his cheekbones, and holy shit he’s got to be wearing several layers of false eyelashes because damn. (Aren’t his eyelids heavy like that?) His mouth is twisted into some sort of neutral expression, but when his eyes meet Aomine’s his lips part slightly in a very unfair kind of way. And yeah, as a rule Aomine generally doesn’t date fans—but most of his fans aren’t this drop-dead gorgeous.

“Aomine-san,” he murmurs; his voice is deep and sweet like an expensive drink with espresso and caramel.

He’s blushing now, faintly at the edge of his cheeks like a perfect sort of makeup-induced television show coloring, only it wasn’t there a second ago. It’s very, very cute and Aomine can’t help but give a cautious half-smile back (he’s only partly certain that this boy won’t run away like a rabbit caught in the open).

“Hello,” says Aomine. “Enjoying yourself?”

He nods. “Thank you for coming. I…admire your style of play.”

“Well,” says Aomine. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? And I’d be kind of a jerk if I didn’t show up at a meeting centered on me, you know.”

He blushes again at this, and Aomine kind of wants to reach out and tweak his nose. He’s going to have to talk to the club president about keeping such a cute kid all to herself for however long.

“So do you play, too…what did you say your name was?”

“Midorima. Midorima Shintarou. I used to, in high school, but I don’t really have time for it anymore.”

“But you have time for this fan club?”

Midorima frowns, mouth forming a sweet little bow of a pout. “It’s less…time-consuming.”

“What, you don’t think about me in all your spare time?”

Midorima flushes redder—it takes a second for him to get the joke but when he does his eyes flit downward. Aomine reaches out to clap him on the shoulder; he looks up again (his face is so damn transparent). His shoulder is firm and warm and fits perfectly in Aomine’s palm, even better than a basketball.

“Forgive me for teasing.”

Midorima’s eyes flicker and then Aomine hears his name. It’s the president of the club and a few other members; they all exchange greetings and when Aomine looks back Midorima’s gone. He finds him a few minutes later while in the midst of a conversation with another newbie (this one less nervous and much less attractive). Generally, for the rest of the meeting Midorima stays in that spot, talking to the same few people, which makes it very easy for Aomine to find him when this thing is winding down. There’s no way he’s letting this remain an isolated moment.

“Hey. Midorima,” Aomine says.

Midorima turns; it’s almost like he’s a cat whose ears twitch at the sound of his voice—he can’t hide it, and it’s so horribly young and adorable and goddamn. Aomine presses the slip of paper into his open palm (his fingers are bandaged and Aomine doesn’t know whether he should ask about that—definitely not now, at any rate).

“Give me a call sometime if you want to talk, okay?”

Midorima nods. His fingers do not close around the paper and he barely moves for a second (maybe he’s more like a startled fawn than a cat, but he’s definitely past the gangly-deer stage so it couldn’t be that apt of a metaphor and it doesn’t matter because either way a cute sort of semi-smile is pressing up against his cheeks and, oh). Aomine winks and then slips away into the crowd to say his goodbyes to his other acquaintances. He’s still thinking about that face, though; he’s still thinking about those well-toned arms (and he sees so many arms that are more muscled, slick with sweat, on the court every day, and they have little to no effect on him—it’s this one set, connected to this one particular young man) and this probably won’t be anything, but he can hope. Even if their next meeting is awkward as hell or even if Midorima never calls, he’ll still have today and the thoughts to keep him occupied. And from the way Midorima had looked at that sheet of paper, he’s going to call. It’s only a matter of when—but Aomine can wait.


End file.
